Nothing Without You
by ancazur
Summary: Three years is long enough to wait for the one who promised never to leave. But maybe not all hope is lost. Maybe there's still something to live for.
1. Chapter 1

_Part One_

It never got easier. His teachers promised he would be okay; the therapist said he was strong enough. But every time Matt walked into the classroom, it took all his composure not to walk back out. Because someone else was sitting in that desk in the back corner, and it wasn't Mello.

The therapist said that he would eventually get over the shock, but what did she know?

It was hard in the beginning, when his disappearance was the latest gossip. Matt didn't miss those days, feeling all their eyes on him as he wandered the halls. They never asked, but it was obvious that they wanted to. They watched, seeing if he would speak, seeing if he would break down.

_They should know better,_ he had thought. _Like I'd cry over it._

But he _did_, not that they knew. His eyes still stung from when he woke that morning, seeing the empty bed in his room. Some days were worse than others. He refused every new roommate Roger tried to thrust at him. Matt would lock the door, pushing Mello's desk against it so no one could break it open. Roger finally gave up. The other kids didn't even complain that he lived by himself. Most ignored him. Some could still sense his solitude.

A note slid across his desk during the lesson. Matt stared at it blankly, aware that the kid beside him was waiting for him to grab it. He was an okay guy; it wasn't the first time one of his notes had landed on his desk. As soon as the teacher turned toward the blackboard, Matt carefully unfolded it.

_Hey, man. You OK?_

It was followed by a series of dense scribbles, as if he wanted to say something more but changed his mind. Matt considered a reply as he rubbed his eye with a fist. Brush it off, or tell the truth? Either way he'd look like a jackass—not caring, or caring too much.

_Don't wanna talk about it._

The kid nodded subtly in reply when he read the note, as if he understood.

But no one understood. Matt couldn't wait to get out of class.

It would be too easy to blame his cranky mood on the anniversary of Mello's departure. _Three years_. He wondered where he was, what he was up to, if he had beaten Near yet. The latter was unlikely; all of Wammy's kids would've known by now if Kira had been defeated. Matt snuck his lunch out of the dining room, again. He was certain that one of the matrons saw him leave, but she conveniently turned her back as he disappeared into the hall. He didn't need their sympathy, but he wasn't going to complain, either.

Matt locked his bedroom door, sitting cross-legged on Mello's bed as he picked the crust off his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was convinced that the scent of sweat and chocolate still lingered in the bed sheets, even if no one else would be able to discern it. He poked at the sandwich, watching the jelly seep through the white bread, then tossed it to the floor in disgust.

The room's only window was over this bed. Matt's hands still shook as he lit up, blowing smoke out the window with tears in his eyes. Mello would be pissed to come home to him sniffling in his bed, scattering ash on the windowsill. _Go cry in your own bed_, he would've said, yanking at Matt's legs, making fun of him for thinking he wouldn't return.

But he had stopped daydreaming about _that_ years ago.

He crushed the half-smoked joint onto the windowsill. What the fuck was he _doing_? How long did he plan to wallow in his own pity?

He ignored the ringing of his cell phone as he blew the last tendril of smoke out the window. He had been scheduled for a tutoring session after lunch, but he simply didn't show up. His tutor would get over it; it wasn't the first time.

Matt jumped off the bed to rummage through the small closet. He pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt that Mello had outgrown years ago. The elbows were worn through, and there was a distinct chocolate stain on the sleeve that never came out. He held it to his nose and breathed in the scent of Mello's skin, still embedding in the fabric. He dropped the shirt to the floor. Pushing aside the hangers, he found what he needed shoved in the back—his old, battered suitcase. It was probably an antique, its hard, blue surface a throwback from the seventies. He hadn't touched the thing since arriving at Wammy's. He tossed it onto the bed, crinkled his nose when unlatching the lock. The inside smelled musty from years of disuse, but he could probably steal a dryer sheet or something from the laundry before he left.

And that was the plan: leaving.

He had no destination in mind, but he pulled random things out of the closet and drawers: wrinkled T-shirts, a bunch of boxers, his PSP. The cell phone rang, again, and he moved to chuck it against the wall. But he glanced at the caller ID before it went airborne.

_Restricted_. Who the hell would call him from a restricted number?

Who the hell would call him at all?

He hesitated before answering, saying nothing even when he picked up.

There was a lengthy pause before he heard his voice. "Matt? You there?"

He closed his eyes as his knees gave out, leaning against the wall to steady himself. It felt like the first gulp of air after struggling underwater, after preparing to drown. The phone was sweating in his hand. "You _fucker_!"

"Hey, I know you're probably mad, but—"

"_Probably_ mad?" His feet pounded the floor as he paced in circles, his legs shaking. "You just _left_! Do you have any idea..." He choked back a sob. He refused to cry. "What happened to 'I'll never leave your side?' What about, 'I'm nothing without you?' Were those just words after you—"

"_Matt_. Shut _up_!" He stopped pacing, stunned into silence. "For God's sake. Where are you?"

"_Where am I_?" He tried not to laugh. "I'm where you_ left me_."

"Fine." The word betrayed a hint of regret. "I sent a plane ticket and some cash. You're coming to L.A., if you won't act like a baby."

"What the… you're in _America_?" He rubbed his forehead.

"I'll explain when you get here."

Matt stared at the open suitcase. It now seemed small and pathetic, but it was the only thing he had to contain everything he owned. "You want anything?" he asked, defeated. "You left everything here."

"Whatever," he said. "I don't need it."

Mello never would have said the part he was waiting for, the part implied by the call itself—_But I need you_. Matt violently flipped through the clothes in the closet, then slammed the door. He was right.

He didn't need any of it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Part Two_

There wasn't anyone to meet him at the airport. He had received an address with the plane ticket, a scrap of paper bearing the familiar scribble of Mello's handwriting. The address was a mess of numbers and cross-streets; it meant nothing to him. The American cash in the envelope was just enough for the cab ride from the airport. He wished there had been something left over; he'd smoked his last cigarette in Heathrow.

Matt stared back and forth between the looming industrial building before him and the scrap of paper in his hand. _This is it. _His hand sweated around the suitcase's handle as he pushed the door open. There was no elevator; he had to walk up the five stories. He craned his neck, counting the landings up the metal staircase. _There_. He could barely see it, but that had to be the door. That's where Mello was.

He took the steps slowly, dragging the suitcase behind him. The higher he climbed, the more difficult it was to take those steps. The nerves in his legs tingled, and he felt his stomach twisting into itself. Maybe it was better he was out of smokes. He already wanted to vomit.

The building felt eerily quiet when he reached the fifth floor, standing outside room number two. He stared at the bronze number on the cold, metal door.

"It's open."

_Mello_. He obviously knew he stood out there like an idiot; Matt's clanking up the stairs had long since stopped.

"And lock the door when you come in," he added.

Matt twisted the knob and pushed.

Mello didn't turn around. It felt like a dream, being this close to him. Matt stared without seeing him, without understanding. He stood at the window, peering through the parted blinds, his hair knotted into a ponytail. Matt stared at his naked back, at the leather pants sitting low on his bony hips. A blistered scar crawled down his arm.

"Mello..." Matt dropped the suitcase, easing into the room to close the door. He twisted the lock behind his back, not wanting to avert his eyes.

He turned, finally, to face him. "Matt. It's been a long time."

Matt took his time removing the vest and gloves, hoping his shaking hands weren't too obvious. But Mello watched, studying in the same way Matt had studied him. Did he look older, too? Had he changed that much? Mello wasn't the same hot-headed kid who bolted out of Wammy's House, that was for sure.

He finally found his footing to approach, reaching for Mello's unscathed shoulder. The skin was rougher than he remembered, but he liked the change. He ran his fingers up his neck and across his jawline, then rested a cheek against his face.

"It's good you're here," Mello whispered.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut. "My God, I've missed you." An arm wound around his waist, a hand slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. But the gesture was stiff. Mello had a lot on his mind, he knew. He was too focused on Kira and Near to give him undivided attention. But Matt pulled away and frowned, staring into his empty eyes.

He had been with someone else.

"Matt?"

Matt turned to the window, parting the blinds to stare at the building across the street. What was over there, anyway? Why had Mello picked this particular location; who was he watching?

He felt hands on his hips, lightly, not like Mello's usual greedy touch. He shivered when his nose nudged the base of his skull, when his lips pressed against his neck. Mello rested his forehead between his shoulder blades.

"I'm not an idiot, you know," Matt said.

"I know." His voice vibrated through his shirt.

"Who was he?"

Mello's grip tightened. "You didn't have anyone else?"

Typical of him to avoid the question, to make Matt feel embarrassed by his own twisted sense of purity. "Like _who_?" He hadn't left Wammy's until he received that plane ticket, and Mello knew it.

He felt cold and naked when he let go. The space wasn't very large, but the distance physically pained him as he watched Mello cross the room. He rummaged through a small cardboard box, pulling out a tattered cloth and an indistinct brown bottle. He dabbed its contents onto the cloth and held it to his injured arm.

Matt grabbed the cloth with a sigh. "Here." Mello winced when it was pressed to his shoulder, but silently passed him the bottle. The skin on his neck had begun to scar, but his back was still a mess. Mello cried out when the saturated cloth touched it. "You should have called me sooner."

"It was a she," Mello mumbled.

"_Really_?" Matt's hand froze over his shoulder.

"Why would I lie about that?"

"But... why?"

Mello shrugged the uninjured shoulder. "It was for the case. She gives me information."

"_Gives_? So..."

"No, Matt." He grunted. "_God_. I wouldn't've called you if I was still fucking her."

Matt pressed the cloth hard against his back, and Mello bit down on his lip to silence the scream of pain. He wasn't sorry.

"So, you gonna tell me how you did _this_?" Matt screwed the cap back on the bottle.

Mello's head dropped. "All right."

They sat on a battered couch, as far from each other as possible, Matt's fingers playing with a tear in the cushion. It was a typical Mello story; he wasn't surprised. Matt didn't care about Kira, really, except that he killed L. He couldn't stop staring at Mello's scarred face as he talked about Kira and the task force and the explosion. He shared his plan, too, though Matt only half-listened. He was distracted by Mello's hair, by the way it looked tied up. He kind of liked it that way.

"You get it now?" Mello asked. "Why we need to do this?"

"I always knew why we needed to do this."

He only cared that he has used the word _we_.

Matt leaned in to kiss him, careful not to touch his seared flesh. When Mello pulled him closer, it was familiar and comfortable. Matt traced the grooves of his spine, resting his hand on the edge of his leather pants. Mello threw a leg across his lap and the leather tugged and creaked as Matt pressed into the kiss harder, feeling tears that were not his slip down his cheek and into their tangled mouths.

Mello broke away, his breath hot on Matt's lips. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay, Mells." He hoped the lie wasn't too obvious, that he couldn't sense just how hard his pulse beat in his neck. But Mello could do anything—_anything_—and he would forgive him. "What's the plan now?"

A kiss brushed the bridge of his nose. "Now?" Mello tucked his thumbs beneath the hem of his shirt, and he could feel the air on his skin as the fabric lifted off his stomach. "You're tired after that flight, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Kinda."

He glanced at the drawn blinds, his thumbs mindlessly stroking Matt's stomach. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was likely something going on in that building he kept on watching, but he didn't move from his lap. "Patch up my back and we'll take a nap, okay? It's a bitch to sleep on."

Matt traced the scar on his shoulder, then leaned in to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, burying his face in his neck. "I'm not letting you leave again." He spoke so softly that he doubted Mello could hear, unsure whether he even wanted him to. But he felt a kiss on the top of his head and fingers through his hair, and it was all the confirmation he needed.


End file.
